


A Setting for Twelve

by NextToSomething



Category: British Actor RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Gen, Romance, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NextToSomething/pseuds/NextToSomething
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom has set out on a seemingly impossible task: shopping. A sales associate deems him a lost cause and promptly takes control of the situation, much to his delight as well as his frustration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Setting for Twelve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This was my first little foray into Tomfic. It's thin and predictable and seriously just a long drabble written for a friend of mine. 
> 
> Prompt: “A first kiss fic. Whether it goes well or not is up to you. :)”

_Luke was completely right,_ Tom thought. He was barmy to think he could do this on his own. He stood staring at the wall of dinnerware as if it were a quantum physics equation. Written backwards.

“There are people to do this for you, mate,” he’d said. “Stylists, designers, personal shoppers. People with taste.”

It was perhaps the last remark that had pushed Tom to this ridiculous place, standing about, looking a total fool. He didn’t even know where to start.

As he reached to pull a salad plate with a gaudy pattern of grapes with guided leaves off the wall, he felt a touch at his elbow.

"Please, no."

 

The words came from behind him. He turned to see a petite woman dressed in the crisp, though feminine, attire often worn by the associates of this type of department store. Her hand was still at his elbow.

"Pardon?"

She curved a cheeky grin, and Tom was struck suddenly by the surprising scatter of freckles across her dusky, olive skin.

Her eyes were the color of celery.

He was staring too fixedly at the twist of her lips.

"I said, ‘Please, no.’" She lowered her hand and raised her eyebrows. "A man who wears a shirt that structured with jeans has to have better sense than to pick the ‘Vineyard Mystique’ pattern."

She indicated the plate in question.

He saw that her freckles even encroached upon the fullness of her lips, though faintly obscured by the sheen of her lip gloss.

"I’m…sorry," he stammered. _Smooth._

"Needn’t apologize for a temporary lack in judgment," she chided. "Now tell me what you are out to find, Mr…?"

Tom straightened at the invitation. “Hiddleston. Tom Hiddleston.” He finished with a winning smile and waited for the recognition to light those dazzling eyes. Soon he would have the upper hand again, once she realized who he was.

The realization never came.

"So, Tom, are you picking a gift for your gran?"

She smiled pleasantly and Tom felt as though he’s been knocked from a ladder. He was at a loss. _Who the hell was this woman?_

"I’m sorry?" He ran a hand through his hair. _Oh, this was going poorly_. “No, I’m here to find a new table setting. I’ve just moved. I— I’m throwing a housewarming.”

She chuckled and he was even more thoroughly flummoxed.

"Then I would kindly direct you from the more geriatric of our dinnerware sets." She made a slight motion and trotted smartly to another section of the wall. He watched her walk for a moment, enjoying the hug of her skirt, before dashing to catch up.

"We’d be better starting here."

"Ah." Tom grimaced. He was never lacking for words.

"Let’s try this again," she said.

 _God, please,_ he thought.

"Which of these strikes your fancy?" He felt a tugging sensation somewhere behind his navel at her question, though he knew she was referring to the plates, not the faint creases at the corners of her eyes and the softness her loose chestnut hair gave to her structured appearance.

"I quite like these two together," he offered, pointing.

She laughed again. He was almost irritated at her flippant remarks. He was not totally incapable, after all.

"While I admire your creativity in mixing patterns," she began. He smiled smuggly, glad to finally have done a thing properly.

"This is a cream colored set, and these white. They would clash terrifically."

The swell of his pride burst.

"Keep this one, and perhaps mix it with these chargers." She pointed to an antique looking set, burnished a rich gold. "It carries through the metallic of the filigree without being too fussy."

He was prepared to dismiss her suggestions on the fairly petulant basis of just wanting to even the match, but, unfortunately, he quite adored the set she had picked. It was just what he had pictured in his mind.

"I quite like that," he said at long last.

"I know." She smiled maddeningly again.

"Now, Tom, make a girl’s night and allow me show you our stemware."

He was certain that he would let this woman show him about anything, if only she would keep smiling at him like that.

"These goblets," she continued, "carry through the gold, and add interest with this unique crackle effect." She held up a goblet for him to admire. He took it from her, and brushed his fingers over hers, a final effort at eliciting a reaction from her.

She seemed unaffected and he nearly dropped the goblet as she passed it to him. It was weightier than he expected.

"This is lovely." He wasn’t looking at the glass however, and her eyes danced across his face. Hope tittered in his chest.

"What size setting are you wanting to buy?"

Tom almost growled in frustration.

"I was thinking ten should do," he said, looking away. He was obviously fighting a losing battle. Or worse, a sparing with a partner that was completely unaware of the match.

"Excellent. A setting for twelve it is." He looked back at her in surprise and a wicked sort of fun crinkled her striking eyes. Perhaps the match was engaged, and not quite over.

He followed her for the better part of an hour as she added piece after ridiculous piece to his setting for twelve, making notes on a pad. He would have let her talk him into a new dining table with a matching buffet if a text from Luke reminding him of his evening schedule hadn’t curtailed the sell.

"I’m having it all wrapped for you." Her voice was chipper as she deftly swiped his credit card for a truly ghastly amount. He was being had, he knew, but the creases that pleated her nose when she laughed at his ineptitude toward interior design was well worth the sizable bill.

"Would you like it delivered or have you a car?"

He shook his head, again getting lost in counting the speckles dusting her cheeks.

"No, no. I’ll have my driver come round."

She smiled again. It seemed so eager to reappear, as if her natural expression was one of bemused mirth.

Three uniformed men marched past toting his recent purchases and the woman turned to Tom.

"I’ll see you out."

He was a bit panicked at the idea of leaving the store. He’d managed to make it through the entire afternoon without learning her name, and as he’d purchased practically the entire floor, he didn’t feel he’d have an excuse to seek her out in the near future.

At the curb, she watched the men load the boot of the car with the day’s spoils, and turned a teasing glance to Tom.

“I feel I owe you a dinner at least for the commission I’ll be getting from this.” Her voice sounded like she was always just coming off from laughing. Tom choked.

“Please.” He cringed at the ridiculous desperation of his voice. “At least tell me your name. I’ll need to know who to blame when my credit card company rings.” At last, he thought. Something that sounded remotely like flirting and not like the stunted responses of a flustered teen.

She slapped a hand to her mouth in surprise. The men had finished loading the car and left them alone on the pavement.

“Did I not— I’m so sorry!” She pressed a small hand to her chest and stuck out the other in belated greeting. “I’m Ophelia.”

_Fucking Christ._

Any of the ground he had gained through the course of the afternoon was surely dashed as he sidestepped her outstretched hand, cupped the back of her warm neck and, ducking his head, pressed his lips against hers.

She stiffened momentarily, and the thought of assault charges flickered through his mind. But then her still unshaken hand fisted in the material of his shirt sleeve and she pulled herself to her toes to press more firmly against him. She smelled divine.

“You know,” she whispered when she broke away from him. His fingers flexed against her neck and he was reluctant to pull away. “You seemed much more smooth in your interviews.”

“You—” his eyes darted over her face, bewildered all over again.

“I’ve left my card in one of the boxes. Don’t play it too cool in waiting to ring me.” She lifted again to her toes and quickly kissed his cheek.

She left him standing on the curb, and he watched her saunter back into the department store.

His driver cleared his throat and Tom waved him on, climbing in the car and closing his own door.

He rubbed his hands against his face, simultaneously humiliated and invigorated at the idea of seeing the minx again.

He thought of the absurd number of parcels in the boot. Luke was going to have a field day with this.


End file.
